


Lucifer

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This sort of falls between fic and ficlet, but I think it stands well enough alone that I'll go "fic".  Was originally written for a challenge for the Porn Battle, but, um, I fail at length.</p><p>Originally posted 1-8-07</p>
    </blockquote>





	Lucifer

**Author's Note:**

> This sort of falls between fic and ficlet, but I think it stands well enough alone that I'll go "fic". Was originally written for a challenge for the Porn Battle, but, um, I fail at length.
> 
> Originally posted 1-8-07

William Bush is no one’s fool. He keeps his own counsel and watches, waits until he knows what is right and what is wrong and what it is that needs to be done. He observes his fellow lieutenants closely, notes their interactions with each other and the rest of the crew and knows, easily and cleanly, where the weak threads are, where the knots will come undone.

Hornblower is on watch and Buckland is in with Clive and the Captain, all of them on tenterhooks as Sawyer’s madness bucks and swells like the sea. Bush makes his way below decks and senses the shifts in the men, alliances and allegiances that hold steadfast and others that change with the tide. Men are loyal to men or ideas and he sees the wedge between them growing ever faster with every knot they travel.

“Mr. Kennedy.”

Bush finds him in the hold, in the lowest reaches of the ship, sitting in darkness. The sounds of the men are kept at bay here, and the loudest sound is the silence and the rats. Strange smells fill the room and the lamp burns hot, though the flame is extinguished.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bush?”

There is nothing but respect and solicitude in Kennedy’s tone, but Bush hears the things underneath, the mocking and the insolence. Kennedy is loyal to a man, and it is likely to be his undoing, but it will not be Bush’s. “There is much you can do, Mr. Kennedy.” He moves over to the younger man and stands, towering over him. Kennedy gets to his feet, and there is more in his body language, a swagger, a dare. “And much you have to learn.”

“I doubt very sincerely, Mr. Bush, that there is anything you can teach me that His Majesty’s Navy has not already made sure I’ve learned and learned well.”

“I think you don’t know your place, Mr. Kennedy.”

“And what is my _place_ , Mr. Bush?” Kennedy steps closer, charge and bravado, honest anger and sparking heat. “Under you?”

The ship rolls and it would be easy to fall into each other, but Bush has no respect for easy. He grabs Kennedy and jerks him forward, face to face, blue eyes to blue. “For starters.”

Kennedy’s kiss is as hot as his eyes, as dangerous. He is sharp teeth and sharper tongue, lashing at Bush with hunger and vengeance. Bush forces him backwards, the burlap bags beneath them providing cushion enough as he traps Kennedy’s body against them, using his leverage to hold Kennedy down, to find his rough hands and pin them above his head.

There is no tenderness in this, no lover’s stroke. There’s nothing even resembling the respect he would pay a whore. This is rough and hard, vicious and claiming as his hand spans both of Kennedy’s wrists, allowing the other to undo Kennedy’s breeches, wrest his shirt free and wrap around the hard thrust of flesh. He knows the feel of his callused fingers on his own sensitive skin and revels in the hard gasp that escapes Kennedy’s parted lips.

Bush is no judge of the finer things in life beyond the simple sight of lace and luxury, but Kennedy like this is beautiful, blond hair escaping his queue and mouth open, lips red and wet, eyes hungry and half-mad. He jerks his hand over Kennedy’s cock, sliding the length of it until Kennedy’s protests die on his lips and his head falls back. Bush huffs a laugh he cannot withhold, stepping back and looking down at his prize, worth more than any ship England might pay him for.

Kennedy watches Bush as he undoes his own breeches, fists his own arousal. Those ice blue eyes slide down to the swell of flesh, a smile that sends a shiver of anticipation racing down Bush’s spine. He kicks Kennedy’s legs apart and moves between them, tugging his shirt up as he leans in, flesh against flesh.

He has no control in this the moment they touch. Kennedy is not untouched, Bush is no fool, but he looks like innocence personified, despite the gleam in his eyes, and that sweet vulnerability is like an aphrodisiac, thrumming through Bush’s blood. His hands find purchase where they can, leverage to drive his body hard against Kennedy’s. His breath burns his lungs, fans against Kennedy’s hair as they grind against one another, flesh hard and wet and slick until Kennedy gasps and arches and drowns Bush in heat.

Groaning, he presses harder, thrusts again, his fingers working into the rice and flour beneath Kennedy, worn raw by the burlap and canvas. He finds Kennedy’s mouth – lips parted and swollen, tongue wet and demanding – and takes it again, stealing Kennedy’s breath until he takes Bush’s away and he comes.

Bush pulls back and tucks his shirt, fastens his breeches. “I think we have an understanding now, Mr. Kennedy?”

“That we do, Mr. Bush.” Kennedy sits up, swollen and sated and seething, eyes flashing retribution like an avenging angel. “That we do.”  



End file.
